Fly in the Ointment
by Andrew Scott.Hi
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes is again confronted by John about his 'inability' to spend time with people for fun, he throws himself into anything he can to get away from this uncomfortable subject and back to his work, even if it involves a certain Jim Moriarty. Sheriarty Jimlock Sherlock/Moriarty Johnlock Sherlock/John PLEASE REVIEW! It's such a great motivator to do more! THANK YOU!


_Not this again._ Sherlock Holmes pressed his hands together in a prayer position, and resting his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes as carefully concealed annoyance tried to force his hand. When he spoke, his voice was cold, clear, and unemotional, reaching the ears of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson as they stood across from his low-backed chair in the living room.

"For the last time, I don't see the benefits of sentiment. It's a disposable emotion. Fly in the ointment-"

"Grime on the glass, yes, we know, Sherlock," John finished. "But your work isn't everything." Mrs. Hudson nodded in assent, while Lestrade, the Scotland Yard detective that Sherlock and John worked most often with, shifted uncomfortably.

"Really, dear, you needn't spend all your time on cases." Mrs. Hudson said, wringing her hands. Though she wasn't always treated with proper respect from the 'high-functioning sociopath', as he liked to be called, she still cared for Sherlock and John greatly.

"And how else will I stay sane," Sherlock replied dryly. "Lestrade, you needn't stay for this-" He shot a look at John. "-_unnecessary _confrontation. You've been glancing at your watch for the past ten minutes, so an appointment of some sort you are going to be late for. You're not wearing your best clothes, so it's not lunch with your wife, but judging by your limp on the way in here, you've got an untreated, sprained ankle. Untreated, as you are known to be quite stubborn, especially about things that might limit your ability to fulfill your constant need to prove yourself to your superiors. Have fun at the doctor's."

"Show off." John muttered as Lestrade wobbled out and called a cab.

Sherlock grinned sarcastically. "It's my job." John leaned forward in his armchair.

"Sherlock. Moriarty and all the other criminals will still be there if you take a break once in a while. I-" He looked at Mrs. Hudson. "-we...care about you."

Sherlock's phone buzzed from his coat pocket, and John sat back with a groan, rubbing his eyes. "Speak of the devil."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and bustled off, her distaste for their work apparent, while Sherlock pulled his phone out, a bit too gratefully, and read the message aloud.

"Come and play, Sherlock. Vauxhall Bridge." John watched as Sherlock pulled his long trench coat on.

"How does he expect to get away with anything in the middle of a busy road?" John stood as well.

"Stay, John. You remember how last time you got involved with him turned out. I know how Moriarty thinks."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll be fine, John." Sherlock frowned at John's expression, the inexpertly concealed concern for his friend, the fear, knowing already what Jim Moriarty was capable of. Pushing it aside, Sherlock swept out the door and hailed a cab.

"Vauxhall Bridge."

"Er, just the bridge, sir?"

.oO0Oo.

It was apparent that something was wrong as soon as Sherlock neared the bridge. Cars and pedestrians were massed on either side, but there didn't seem to be anyone on the bridge. Sherlock left the cab and pushed through the civilians until he reached the police barrier. He stopped suddenly when he noticed the shining red dots focused on the chests of each and every police officer.

_So someone must be forcing the police to barricade off the bridge._ Sherlock leaned forward, stepping closer to the barrier than anyone else had dared, and peered out across Vauxhall Bridge. It was empty, all except...a small table and two chairs were sitting in the very middle of the road, and one of the chairs was already occupied.

Jim Moriarty. Lounging causally, watching the crowds scream as red, sniper sighting dots flashed randomly among them, keeping them in place. Moriarty glanced at his watch, as though he waiting for someone. Sherlock was jerked from his frenzied thought process of '_what does Moriarty want this time_' as one of the police officers grabbed his arm and pulled him across the barrier. A red light danced on the side of her head as she spoke in a shaky voice.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. But-"

"I'm the only one to go across correct? And if you don't make me-" Her eyes flashed with fear as the red dot moved to rest directly over her heart.

"Don't worry." Sherlock murmured as he strode off towards Moriarty. "I was planning to go anyways."

.oO0Oo.

Jim Moriarty stood as his archenemy approached the table, brushing off his carefully tailored Westwood suit. He looked down at the table and kicked a piece of gravel dejectedly.

"I thought you wouldn't come… my dear," He smiled slightly. "But of course, you always show up for our games eventually." Sherlock regarded Jim through narrowed eyes before sitting down across from him. He held his composed outward appearance like a lifeline as Moriarty walked around behind him.

"What is it that you want, Moriarty?"

"Tsk, tsk." Jim whispered in his ear, watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock twitched, and the consulting criminal laughed softly. He then continued walking around the table and sat down, propping up his chin on his hands. "Pushy, pushy, Sherlock. But I'll tell you anyway." He leaned forward slightly, so the sunlight that had made it through the heavy London clouds cast dark shadows under his eyes as he smiled that predatory smile of his. "I want to play a different type of game," he reached into a drawer in the table and pulled out a chessboard, "My normal ones, with murders and clues and blackmail, and all that, take much too time to plan…" He shook his head. Sherlock gestured at the board.

"So."

Moriarty blinked slowly, holding up one finger. _Wait. _Just then, a large round of shouting echoed from the edge of the bridge, and Sherlock whipped around to see John, Lestrade, and and his own pretentious brother, Mycroft, arguing with the police, who were already near emotional collapse. Sherlock was under the impression that Mycroft, often referred to as the British Government itself, didn't care for him at all. Now, though, Sherlock supposed, things had changed.

"Oh, good, your pets have come to play." Moriarty leaned to the side to get a good look at the group of Sherlock's friends, who were now attempting to force themselves across the police barrier.

"SHERLOCK! WHAT THE BLOODY HE-" Just as John broke through, a shot rang out, and a bullet hit the ground near his feet. Sherlock jumped in his seat, and let his breath out in a hiss, while Jim rolled his eyes.

"Your new-found sentimentality sickens me, Sherlock." He carefully twisted some of Sherlock's chess pieces to reveal the crudely pasted photographs of John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade; each with their own piece. Moriarty's dark eyes glinted as he watched realization dawn on Sherlock. "He's got it now!" Jim sang softly, his sing-song tone not matching the shark-like grin on his face.

"You wanted my… friends… to come… for you play with."

"Mmm." Jim Moriarty closed his eyes and nodded, smiling, along with Sherlock's words.

"You've put their lives in my hands."

"Mmm."

"But I could just leave now…" Sherlock made to stand up, but Moriarty's expression, shifting suddenly from amusement to dark sincerity, held him in place.

"Oh, no no no no… If you leave, Sherlock," He gestured to John's figure in the distance, the quivering red dot on his chest barely visible, "Your pets lose by default."

Sherlock grimaced, then tugged his gaze away from the people whose lives he was now being forced to play with, and pushed forward a pawn.

.oO0Oo.

The game really _was_ on. The incessant wind whistled across the bridge, flinging chips of the broken chess pieces into the air. They had been playing for nearly an hour, but that was to be expected from geniuses like Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, and the evenly mixed black and white shards spoke to how evenly matched they were.

"Don't be _boring_, Sherly," Jim knocked a white rook off the board. "You're hiding all your little pets away." It was true, Sherlock had kept the pieces representing the lives of his friends as far away from Jim as he could. Sherlock shrugged and moved John's piece out of reach.

"Maybe it's because I don't want you to have them shot." He stated matter-of-factly.

"Dull. The point of this is to _play the game,_" Moriarty leaned forward and smiled. "And games… have risks." It was Sherlock's turn to smile.

"But you've only taken into account your advantages, Jim. You have my friends held at gunpoint." Moriarty rolled his eyes at the word 'friend'.

"And?"

"What you have failed to factor in… is the resources my friends have available to them." Jim twitched an eyebrow.

"Screaming for their lives? The police can't do anything." Moriarty said sarcastically.

"I'll narrow it down… the resources available to my brother."

"Ah." Jim dipped his head and chuckled softly, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Mycroft Holmes, backbone to the British government. Clever, clever."

"The military helicopters are on their way now."

Moriarty pouted slightly.

"All I wanted to do was play, dear. Don't pretend you don't ever feel more _alive_ than when you're playing _my _games. We're just the same."

"Your 'games' just have happened to involve my friends a few times to many." Sherlock growled. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Your pets again, Sherlock?" He leaned forward menacingly, but Sherlock simply stared blankly back at him. "Sentiment, Sherlock. Sentiment is a WEAKNESS." Jim sat back calmly, studying Sherlock's carefully composed expression.

"Then why haven't you won? I suppose… _sentimentality _forced me to play better than ever." Sherlock smiled softly as he moved his queen to trap Jim's King. "Check mate. And the helicopters should be here in…" He checked his watch. "Six and a quarter minutes, judging by their average response time to seemingly 'non-national emergencies'.

"There will be no need for that, Sherly."

Jim paused, then raised a hand into the air, and the red sniper dot disappeared, the crowd immediately scattering and rushing as far away from the Thames as they could. He held out his wrists mockingly to Sherlock, waiting to be cuffed. "I assume you brought some?"

Sherlock blinked and gaped. "At loss for words? Hmm. I didn't know anyone could do that to you." Jim grinned.

"You're giving yourself up?" Jim tilted his head to the side at Sherlock's disbelief, still smiling widely.

"What does it look like?" Jim shrugged. "If you don't want to play my games, just because a few of your pets might die, I don't see any point in trying. But we'll see how long you'll stand the _boredom._" Sherlock shook his head, as if clearing out his own confusion, and walked around the table, jerking Jim Moriarty's arms behind him roughly. "Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. Break it, you buy it." Sherlock snapped a pair of steel handcuffs onto Jim's hands, then pushed him ahead towards the end of the bridge. Jim jerked his head at the sleek black cars, embossed with the British Crest, screaming down the road towards the bridge. "I think your brother will want _professionals_ to do all the torture and torment. You know, to get my 'info'." Sherlock frowned at Jim's sing-song tone. This man really _was_ mad, giving himself up for at least a few months of pain and torture, being give up all the secrets to his criminal web, which Sherlock really doubted he would. In fact, Sherlock doubted his brother would be able to connect Jim Moriarty with any of the crimes he was most certainly behind, even the snipers from that day.

A pair of British secret service officers rushed out to meet them from the cars, but Sherlock stopped suddenly, his words clipped and irritated.

"You said I wouldn't be able to stand the boredom. If you were put away." Moriarty laughed at Sherlock's confusion.

"Don't deny it, Sherly. You're just like me," He nodded knowingly, "We're the only things keeping each other sane." Jim's eyes glittered menacingly as he recognized the reluctant understanding in Sherlock's. He laughed louder, a manic, terrifying sound, as the agents grabbed his shoulders and jerked him away.

"Good thing for you, Sherlock Holmes… Scotland Yard can't hold me for long!"

"Ta for now, then, Jim." Sherlock had barely turned away when John, who had now managed to break away from the Secret Service's urgent questioning, nearly ran into him, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. What were you thinking?" Sherlock awkwardly returned the hug, memory of what had happened in the chess match filling his mind.

"Never mind that, John. But I think… I've learned something." John pulled away, his expression flickering rapidly between anger at Sherlock's recklessness, and concern for his friend.

"The Great Sherlock Holmes, learn something?" Sherlock smiled softly at John's sarcasm.

"Maybe sentimentality, that is, caring for people… isn't such a bad thing after all." John flung up his arms in disbelief.

"What _have _you done with the real Sherlock Holmes!"

"John… "

"I bet Moriarty CLONED you!" Sherlock sighed inwardly at John's strange coping mechanism for stressful, traumatic situations.

"John."

"HA! I reckon that's it! Now where _is_ the real Sherlock?"

"JOHN!"

"Hm?"

"I meant it."

"..."

"I still mean it."

"I know."


End file.
